“So,” I whisper, “you want to pretend this is real? Like we’re… normal?”
His mouth quirks. “We were never normal.”
“No,” I admit softly. “We weren’t.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, the flame catching on the faint scar beneath his cheek. A reminder in living flesh.
“Do you remember the first time we saw each other?” His voice drops, almost intimate. “Not when we were introduced. The very first time I laid eyes on you.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Yes. I remember.”
His smile is small, dangerous, indulgent. “You were in the garden. With those two girls?—”
“Constance and Adelaide.”
He nods. “Right. You three were sprawled in the grass, giggling like you’d stolen the world.”
A reluctant smile touches my lips. “We were looking at boys on our phones. Rating them.”
His chuckle is deep, chest heavy. “Oh? And what did you rate them?”
“Constance gave some guy with marble abs a twelve.”
“And you?” He tilts closer, eyes darkening.
“A six,” I confess. “He was too full of himself.”
Jacob hums. “And me?”
“You didn’t make the cut.”
His jaw tics, but not with anger—with amusement. “Different league, then?”
“You stood by the fence, talking to Papa—but watching me.”
His tongue drags along his cheek, slow. “You noticed?”
“Too easy,” I reply.
He leans back but doesn’t break my gaze. “You wore that white sundress with yellow flowers.”
I blink. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he says. “The way your hair caught the sun. The tilt of your chin when you laughed, like you had no idea how much someone could want you.”
Silence tightens between us.
“Why didn’t you approach me? Before things got…weird?” I murmur.
He doesn’t flinch. “I told myself I’d wait for you to move out of your parents. Told myself I wouldn’t overstep.” His hand drags through his hair, a rough, restless motion, like even speaking it out loud makes him sound worse than he already feels. “But Summer….” His voice drops, softer, darker. “The second I saw you, I knew you’d be mine.”
A hot ache claws through me—shame, desire, curiosity tangled too tight to separate.
“So, you just… held onto hope?” My voice wavers. “Didn’t you ever think I wouldn’t feel the same?”
His eyes taper. “Every goddamn day. I worried someone else might touch you. Might get there first.” His fingers close around mine, grip firm, tethering. “But it didn’t stop me,” he says. “Never has. Never will. Hope wasn’t what I needed. I made sure no one else got close enough. I didn’t need you to want me, Summer. I needed you toseeme. To feel in your bones what I feel when I look at you. And once you did… I knew you’d never forget.”
My thumb traces the rim of my glass before I look up, meeting the dark weight of his stare. I’m hoping he doesn’t see the guilt behind my eyes, because Tyler did get there first. But he was just a boy compared to Jacob. He was nineteen, inexperienced and—from what I experienced—had no clue what a clitoris was.
